


Stanford... An Era.

by pantykinksam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Cocky Dean Winchester, College au (kinda), Dean Winchester Goes to Stanford with Sam Winchester, M/M, Smoker Dean Winchester, Stanford Era, Top Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantykinksam/pseuds/pantykinksam
Summary: Brady has a hard time being convinced that Sam and Dean are more than brothers.





	Stanford... An Era.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea of Dean following Sam to Stanford kicking around for a while now. I didn't even expect it would take this turn.

Dean is leaning with his back against a light pole, the flush yellow glow of the stadium lights flickering overhead. He’s barely buzzed and there’s not enough going on to be anything more than underwhelmed, and so his mouth is twisted up into a perpetual snarl, sarcastic.

"So...you guys are brothers, huh?" asks the sun-tanned boy to Dean's left. He's got his beady eyes narrowed in on the cigarette between his lips and he’s really struggling to light it. His one, scrawny little wrist is still screwing with his defect lighter, but he’s still talking to Dean.

Dean snorts, dives his hand into his jacket pocket and flicks out his favorite lighter.  
He snatches it back with a hiss when the boy, Brady, Dean remembers Sam introducing them, tries reaching for it. One warning glare is all that Brady gets, and it gleams viciously even in the dark. 

Brady drops his smile and his hand, ashamed.

Dean tries again, and reaches over to light the kid's cigarette, which he accepts all too eagerly, looking like Dean’s just saved his entire sheep farm, and he shakes his head, lip between his teeth. Two fingers beckon until Brady, reluctant as hell, drops a fresh cig into Dean’s hand, who nods appreciatively, takes a drag. 

It’s a small victory, an instant calm that surges through him and he lets it bleed through him, lets the smoke curl around his throat. Dean pulls Sam into his side with a hand on his waist, soft groan through closed lips. 

Brady’s eyes go wide, harsh light breaking out a greasy luster of sweat across his forehead. 

Dean grins.

“Brothers? Yeah, sure are.”

A soft squeeze to Sam’s hip, undetectable. 

There are a group of girls in a cluster of scandal on the opposite end of the field, and they glance back and forth between the two of them in groups of one or two, back to whispering in a matter of moments. 

Dean catches a pretty blonde’s eye just as she frowns at him, and winks, sharp edge to his smirk. It’s the kind of thing that gets him all hopped up on adrenaline, nights out with Sam like this. She flinches and crouches back into the shadows, literally, the curve of her shoulders enveloped by her crowd of friends, and Dean cocks his head, bites his lip. 

He recognizes her - Jess, Sam had said, the first of Sam’s friends he was introduced to. She’d blushed a lot and rolled her eyes a couple of times, and Dean just knew she would be too easy, if not a total freak in bed, and was impressed that Sam seemed less than interested in her.

He does a quick scan of the stadium but no one’s staring, and so he turns his attention back to Brady, shit-eating grin that widens with the cringe that Brady’s fighting with every second.

“Well, brothers, first.”

It gives the desired effect. Brady winces, hard swallow of the last swig of beer in his bottle, and he nods in resignation, mouth curled up at the corners.

"Now... you're..." Brady makes this broad, erratic gesture in the air towards Sam and Dean, cranes his neck towards them like he’s expecting them to elaborate, to fill in the blanks he won’t say aloud. They don’t.

There’s a long, incessant silence that draws itself out, and save for the mull of feminine giggling in the background noise, no one makes a move to speak.

Sam just sighs, scuffs his fingernails up and down on the exposed skin of his shoulders. Dean does a once-over, licks his lips. It had been almost ten years since Sam had worn a tank top, unprovoked, and Dean can’t even take a shot in the dark at what convinced his brother to tonight, but he’s not about to shoot it down, either. 

“We’re fucking,” Sam says, finally. 

Brady coughs, scratches the back of his neck, shakes his head, and starts to shuffle in place, all at once. Poor kid’s head must be spinning, real life incest right here at Stanford. 

 

Dean tsks, "Aw, Sammy. No need to sugarcoat it,” soft pout to his lips at Sam, gentle mockery. 

Sam shoots him a biting glare. Dean snickers.

They’re hanging out in the open air, a couple of Sam’s other friends out to join them in the empty field, warm on booze and late Summer heat. Sam’s just gotten back to school for the new semester. 

He’d made sure not to skip out on the introductions this time, had gotten right to inserting Dean into his friend groups, and Dean had to hand it to him, he liked his style. It saved for less dramatics when, after a thousand awkward explanations later, they all inevitable find out that Sam’s “boyfriend” shares his last name. Last semester had been… a rollercoaster.

Dean's becoming increasingly aware of the heat of Brady's confused squint, shrinking in on them like he's trying to make out more than just their silhouettes in the dark, and dirty satisfaction pools deep in Dean's belly. 

Brady grimaces. "That doesn't bother you?" He asks it but it doesn't sound like a question.

That gets Sam’s attention, because he frowns, straightens up until he’s all shoulders, the muscles in his back a hard line against Dean’s hot palm.

He leans in, challenges his friend with a daring stare and a, “Should it?”

Brady wrinkles his nose and Dean can actually hear the wires pulsing in the guy’s brain. He’s working to phrase whatever he’s thinking in a way that won’t get his ass kicked, Dean’s sure. 

“Well,” he shrugs, “I mean, you’ve seen campus, Sam. There’s tons o’ass up for grabs. It can’t be that hard for a guy like you, find a chick to take home with you. Or, or dude, if you’re into that. And Dean, him too!”

Brady’s eyes flicker back and forth between them, stunned moths in the bright light, and he exhales a cloudy patch of grey smoke into Sam’s face, swallowing hard. His voice is shaky when he starts up again, this struggle to regain control of his breathing that has Dean cocky and warm all over. 

“Hell, what about Jess? She’s into you, and her friends are pretty foxy, most of them.”

Dean growls, low and feral and just for Sam. His brother’s hand laces around into his back pocket, giant palm that’s too big to fit but it grounds him enough to let Sam do the talking, just because he doesn’t trust himself all that much right now not to murder this guy.

"Nah, man, it's not like that," Sam dismisses with a laugh. Nut it's dark, cold, and even Brady couldn't miss it. Dean could swear he sees him shudder. 

 

"Dean is ... it for me. We're not just fucking." He shrugs, brushes it off like it’s so fucking nonchalant, and Dean has to fight the urge to whistle his praise. "It's really just a perk." 

Brady takes a shot of something strong and doesn't say anything for a long time.  
"So, he's your boyfriend. Or, is there like, another name for it? What do you call it, brothers with benefits?" 

Dean's mouth spreads into a sly grin. "Most call it incest." 

Brady sputters, choking on his liquor. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut like the news is just as hard to swallow, and then laughs weakly. 

"That, too. But I mean... it's exclusive, huh?"

Sam throws up his hands, exasperated sigh that vibrates through Dean just as well.

"Jesus, Brady, does there have to be a name for it?"

Dean takes a slow drag, crooked smile around the butt of his cigarette. The smoke blows back into Sam’s face and his brother snatches it out of his hand, swipes it out against the rubber sole of his boot and shoots Dean a warning look that has him spiked with amusement. He thinks for a moment, here we go.

"It just... is." 

Brady kicks his feet out from under himself and slumps down the light pole, ass on the grass. He curls his knees in and blows out a long breath like he’s trying to keep warm or maybe trying to catch his breath.

His head ducks, a subtle sign of shame. He scratches absently at his forearms and just kinda lays limp for a second.

“Right, I get it, I do, what you’re saying. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that what you’re telling me is you’ll never go after another piece of ass because you’re taking it up your own instead.”

It’s bold, practiced, even. 

Sam rolls his eyes.  
Brady misses the cue to shut the fuck up.

"Actually," the jackass drones on, "It's not even the gay thing. I'm not even sure you've ever been with a girl. Have you, Sam? Because if you've only been with Dean, how do you know what you're missing?" 

Dean's mood darkens, and the atmosphere shifts with it, the scene shrinking down to just the three of them. He grits his teeth.

"What's it matter to you, cowboy?"

Brady tosses his hands up in surrender. "He's my best friend, man. I'm just trying to understand."

Dean bristles. "Shouldn't be a problem. I can help you with that." 

Sam nudges Dean’s pant leg with his boot, slips his hand under the waistline of Dean’s pants, and it’s chilling, meant to ground him, keep him quiet. 

"He's drunk, Dean," Sam murmurs into his brother's leather collar, "Let it go." 

Then, probably just for good measure, he presses a soft kiss to the bared sliver of skin on Dean's throat. He must get that physical reaction of calm he was after because Dean feels his smile rise up over his collar, hot against the flesh of his neck.

Sam meets Brady’s eye, holds a stare. "If that's something you're against, no one's holding it to you. But we thought you should know."

Brady nods slowly. "Right. Thanks." 

Dean can tell he's not entirely sure it's something he should be thankful for knowing. 

"I just... humor me, maybe?" Brady's voice cracks in half when he asks it, and the sound of it makes Sam's fingers curl over the dip in Dean's back. Dean squeezes back, trigger-quick reflexes, a silent understanding.

"Humor you?" Dean snorts, "Alright, sure."

It leaves Brady in a slew of questions, antsy and not a breath between them like he’s afraid he’ll take them back.

"When did all this start? What age? Who initiated it? And, most importantly, who fucks who up the ass?" 

Dean coughs obnoxiously loud and pounds his chest, wide-eyed. Sam’s snarl rips through him and he twists a hand into the back of Dean's jacket just to remind him of his place, glares little-brother-bitchface hard. 

Dean settles again, and he just glares. No reaction, just pure hatred.

"Christ,” Sam says, “I think you're a little hyper focused on the sodomy. Why can't you just accept the fact that it happens?"

Brady chokes. "It's an important detail, Sam! It says a lot about a guy!" 

Sam chuckles and gives Dean some kind of a pitying smile, kisses his booze-warmed cheek. He gets real low in Dean's ear and draws out a long, husky whisper that melts Dean good and plenty. 

"You wanna tell him or should I?"

Dean stiffens, stands up straight so Sam’s hand is pressed hard against the edge of his spine and his shoulder blades are knocked together. He clears his throat, hard twitch to his jaw, and looks at Brady with murderous intent. Then, slowly, he nods his consent to Sam. 

Sam grins, a lopsided upturn of his lips. 

"Dean bottoms for me, usually. Not always, but on default." 

The two of them watch the conclusion flicker across Sam’s friend's face.

Brady gulps, eyes flickering between them, hesitant. 

"Which means?" 

Dean thunks his head against the pole and the look he gives Sam is one of pure disbelief, probably at the fact that any of Sam's uncultured friends got into Stanford. 

"It means it's my ass that gets the fucking, asshole,” he growls. 

Brady pales, then blushes, then shudders. Sam stifles back his laughter, then covers his smile with his hand at the first glance from a bewildered girl across the room. It's a miracle Brady hasn't gotten up and blasted the news halfway across the campus, and Dean’s sure Sam is grateful they got a chance to defend their name a little bit, what little good that'll do.

"And you're okay with that?" Brady asks Dean.

Dean blinks at Brady, squints like he can't see him in the dim light. "Okay with that?" 

Sam bites his lip, squeezes Dean airtight-close again. Dean can feel his toes pushing at the soles of his shoes. He knows Sam gets off on this. He's pushing their luck with Brady on purpose.

He whistles. 

"Man, I'm gonna say this real nice because I take it you've never been fucked in the ass before. But Sam? There's no... there's no just 'okay' when Sam Winchester has you pinned to the bed frame, you know?"  
Then a long laugh, low and sarcastic. "Well, I guess you don't." 

Brady's eyes flicker over to Sam's face, his jaw dropped in horror. Sam ducks his head into the crook of Dean's neck and hisses at him to cool it, or else. A sly grin spreads across Dean's face, like he knows Brady isn't the only one who's in for it next. 

"Lemme tell you," Dean starts. 

Sam pulls Dean against him hard by the belt loops, a daring scowl sweeping his face. Dean pretends not to notice. Whatever shame he had earlier about sharing this part of him is gone; he's fearless. 

"When he puts that mouth to use? God." He rolls his eyes back real dramatic like, bites his lip ‘till it starts to swell. "And starts rolling his hips just right?" 

Dean hums, flashing a smile at a brightly blushing Sam.

Brady pauses, tossing up his hands. It drags on when Sam and Dean just blink back at him until finally, he whispers, 

"You're kidding. This is all a joke."

"A joke, brother?" Dean shrugs, throws his arms up behind his head and kicks back like everything is all fine and dandy, casual. "All right. I can see why you'd think that."

Dean catches the flicker of Sam’s eyes on him, but it just eggs him on. 

“But lemme tell you, I can’t make this shit up. I mean, you’d think I’d have to be pretty damn committed to this dick to move halfway across the country and ditch my entire, like, destiny, or whatever, for Sam.”

Sam huffs, hard blow through his nose and Dean smiles at him, thumps him hard on the shoulder. 

“Oh yeah?” Brady drawls, and he sounds like he’s really caught them in their lie this time. “Prove it, then.”

Sam inhales, a quick, sharp breath of air through clenched teeth. “Dean -”

“Sam.” 

Dean’s brother flinches.

“He doesn’t believe us.”

Sam snarls, “I know, Dean.” He ducks low, takes his time to murmur, “But hey, he doesn’t have to. Let’s just… let it go.”

Dean chuckles, throat bled hoarse and dry from the smoke. “No, see, that’s not how this is gonna work. He wants to know for sure. We gonna show him, or what?”

Sam balks. “Dean, no! We’re not gonna show him. The last thing I need-”

“He’s not gonna tell anyone. Look at him, he’s terrified.”

Dean turns to Brady, flick of his tongue when it darts out to lick his lips. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Sam rolls his eyes, but then Dean is working a hand into his hair and tugging at his neck, and when he brings his mouth down to meet his in this biting, ruthless kiss, Dean doesn’t miss the sound of Brady’s squawk. 

He tears into Sam’s mouth with his tongue, wrenches his jaw open with a tug at his hair, the only cue, and then Brady is prying Sam back by his shirt, gawking. 

“Dude, okay! I get it, Christ!”

Sam flushes, dark roll of red over his cheeks that Dean can’t see in the dark but knows is there anyway by the slump of his shoulders, the way he tucks his hands into his pockets. Dean beams, well and truly sated.

“Glad we could get through to you.”

Brady gulps, goes to shrug but it comes off like a shudder and says, “I need another drink.”

“God, Dean, you can’t just kiss me like that, not in public, people will-”

Dean grunts, shivers with his eyes hot and bold. “People will what, Sam? Believe what we tell ‘em? Isn’t that the whole point?”

There’s a brief moment of panic on Sam’s face, this kind of uncertainty like he doesn’t know if telling Brady was the best idea anymore. He tugs Dean in closer with a tilt of his head and the crook of his finger.

“Look, you crazy fucker,” he hisses. Dean cackles. “I don’t know what grounds are for expulsion but I’m pretty sure first-degree incest will do the trick, and I really don’t want this to turn into some huge scandal that I can’t keep under wraps, okay?”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “And you think Brady was a good candidate for keeping this brothers-not-boyfriends secret of yours?”

Sam sighs, runs a couple fingers through his hair towards the back of his skull. Dean watches them, reaches up to tuck some behind his ear, unconscious lick of his lips. Sam shrugs him off, looks around.

“Brady’s good people. He won’t like it, but he’ll keep it for us. Trust me, okay?”

Dean gives Sam a calculating look, stares up at him - and isn’t that weird, just a few months gone by and college food has done his boy’s body good, has shot him up a few extra inches where Dean’s smuggled bread and jelly couldn’t do the trick. 

“I do, Sam.” And he means it.

Sam nods, grateful. “Okay. So, we should probably get out of here then, huh?”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, laughs long and hard and crooks an eyebrow at Sam. “Oh yeah, cause that whole fiasco just got you really hot and bothered, eh, baby boy?”

Sam glares, fights back a retort and just swallows, dark cloud that passes over his face and it burns right through Dean, makes his belly quiver.

“You’ve got a lot to pay for, jerk.”

Dean just grins. 

“Maybe we should bring Brady along, give him a show. How’s that for proof, huh?”

“That’s it,” Sam snips, grabs for Dean’s wrists and pulls him around towards the car. “I’m taking your drunk ass home.”

“Oh, you do that, Sammy. You show me how it’s done, big boy!” He yells it with his head tipped back, laughing to the sky, and Sam groans with all the force of a dying man stabbed in the gut, his chin falling to his chest.

“Dean, I swear to God. You’re gonna pay.”

Dean snickers. 

“I was bettin’ on it, little brother.”


End file.
